Lady of the Ice

by James De Mille

  “Waiting for the Widow.”

  Thus far Jack had been holding his face in his hands; but, as the last tones of the bell died away, he raised himself and looked around with some wildness in his face.

  “By Jove!” said he.

  “What?”

  “The widow!”

  “She’s not here,” said I.

  “By Jove! Only think of it. A widow, and too late! By Jove! I can’t grapple with the idea, you know.”

  After this we relapsed into silence, and waited.

  The people in the pews whispered more vigorously, and every little while looked anxiously around to see if the bridal party was approaching. Old Fletcher closed his eyes, folded his arms, and appeared either buried in thought or in sleep — probably a little of both. Jack sat stolidly with his legs crossed, and his hands hugging his knee, looking straight before him at the opposite side of the chancel, and apparently reading most diligently the Ten Commandments, the Creed, and the Lord’s Prayer, which were on the wall there. I was in a general state of mild but ever-increasing surprise, and endeavored to find some conceivable reason for such very curious procrastination.

  So the time passed, and none of us said any thing, and the little company of spectators grew fidgety, and Jack still stared, and I still wondered.

  At last old Fletcher turned to Jack.

  “You said twelve, I think, sir,” said he, mildly and benevolently.

  “Twelve — did I? Well — of course; why not? Twelve, of course.”

  “The lady is rather behind the time, I think — isn’t she?” said the reverend gentleman, with mild suggestiveness.

  “Behind the time?” said Jack, fumbling at his watch; “why, so she is; why, it’s twenty minutes to one. By Jove!”

  “Perhaps you mistook the hour,” hinted the clergyman.

  “Mistook it? Not a bit of it,” cried Jack, who looked puzzled and bewildered. “The hour? I’m as confident it was twelve as I’m confident of my existence. Not a bit of doubt about that.”

  “Perhaps some thing’s happened,” said I, “hadn’t I better drive round to the house, Jack?”

  “Yes; not a bad idea,” said Jack. “I’ll go too. I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve read the ten commandments through seventy-nine times, and was trying to work up to a hundred, when you interrupted me. Do you know, old chap — I feel out of sorts; that brandy’s got to my head — I’d like a little fresh air. Besides, I can’t stand this waiting any longer. If it’s got to be — why, the sooner the better. Have it out — and be done with it, I say. A fellow don’t want to stand all day on the scaffold waiting for the confounded hangman — does he?”

  Jack spoke wildly, cynically, and desperately. Old Fletcher listened to these words with a face so full of astonishment and horror, that it has haunted me ever since. And so we turned away, and we left that stricken old man looking after us in amazement and horror too deep for words.

  Jack’s spirits had flushed up for a moment into a fitful light; but the next moment they sank again into gloom. We walked slowly down the aisle, and, as we passed down, the spectators, seeing us go out, rose from their seats with the evident conviction that the affair was postponed, and the determination to follow. Jack’s carriage was at the door, and we drove off.

  “Macrorie, my boy,” said Jack.

  “What?”

  “You didn’t bring your flask, I suppose,” said Jack, gloomily.

  “No,” said I, “and it’s well I didn’t, for I think you’ve done enough of that sort of thing today.”

  “Today? This is the day of all days when I ought. How else can I keep up? I must stupefy myself, that’s all. You don’t know, old boy, how near I am to doing some thing desperate.”

  “Come, Jack, don’t knock under that way. Confound it, I thought you had more spirit.”

  “Why the deuce does she drive me mad with her delay?” cried Jack, a few minutes after. “Why doesn’t she come and be done with it? Am I to spend the whole day waiting for her? By Jove, I’ve a great mind to go home, and, if she wants me, she may come for me.”

  “Do,” said I, eagerly. “She’s missed the appointment; why should you care?”

  “Pooh! a fellow can’t act in that sort of way. No. Have it out. I’ve acted badly enough, in a general way, but I won’t go deliberately and do a mean thing. I dare say this sort of thing will wear off in the long run. We’ll go to England next week. We’ll start for New York tonight, and never come back. I intend to try to get into the 178th regiment. It’s out in Bombay, I believe. Yes. I’ve made up my mind to that. It’s the only thing to be done. Yes — it’s the best thing — far the best for both of us.”

  “Both of you!”

  “Both, yes; of course.”

  “What, you and the widow?”

  “The widow? Confound the widow! Who’s talking of her?”

  “I thought you were talking of her. You said you were going to take her to England.”

  “The widow? No,” cried Jack, peevishly; “I meant Louie, of course. Who else could I mean? Louie. I said it would be far better for me and Louie if I went to Bombay.”

  And with these words he flung himself impatiently back in the carriage and scowled at vacancy.

  And this was Jack. This was my broad-browed, frank-faced, golden-haired, bright, smiling, incoherent, inconsistent, inconsequential, light-hearted, hilarious Jack — the Jack who was once the joy of every company, rollicking, reckless, and without a care. To this complexion had he come at last. Oh, what a moral ruin was here, my countrymen! Where now were his jests and gibes — his wit, that was wont to set the table in a roar? Alas! poor Yorick! Amour! amour! quand tu nous tiens, who can tell what the mischief will become of us! Once it was “not wisely but too many” — now it was “not wisely but too well” — and this was the end of it. O Louie! O Jack! Is there no such thing as true Platonic love on earth?

  But there was not much time for Jack to scowl or for me to meditate. The widow did not live very far away, and a quarter of an hour was enough to bring us there.

  It was a handsome house. I knew it well. Jack knew it better. But it looked dark now, and rather gloomy. The shutters were closed, and there was no sign of life whatever.

  Jack stared at the house for a moment and then jumped out. I followed. We hurried up the steps, and Jack gave a fierce pull at the bell, followed by a second and a third.

  At the third pull the door opened and disclosed a maid-servant.

  “Mrs. Finnimore?” said Jack, as he stepped into the hall — and then stopped.

  The servant seemed surprised.

  “Mrs. Finnimore?” said she.

  “Yes,” said Jack. “Is she here?”

  “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why, sir — she’s gone — ”

  “Gone ” cried Jack. “Gone! Impossible! Why we drove straight here from St. Malachi’s, and didn’t meet her. Which street did she go?”

  “Which street, sir? St. Malachi’s, sir?” repeated the servant, in bewilderment.

  “Yes — which way did she go?”

  “Why, sir — she went to Montreal,” said the servant — “to Montreal, you know, sir,” she repeated, in a mincing tone, bridling and blushing at the same time.

  “To — where? what?” cried Jack, thunderstruck — “Montreal! Montreal! What the devil is the meaning of all that?” And Jack fairly gasped, and looked at me in utter bewilderment. And I looked back at him with emotions equal to his own. And we both stood, to use an expressive but not by any means classical word — dumfounded.

  [Had a thunder-bolt burst — and all that sort of thing, you know, my boy.]

  Jack was quite unable to utter another word. So I came to his help.

  “I think you said your mistress went to Montreal?” said I, mildly and encouragingly, for the s
ervant began to look frightened.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Will you be kind enough to tell me what she went there for? I wouldn’t ask you, but it’s a matter of some importance.”

  “What for, sir?” said the servant — and a very pretty blush came over her rather pretty face. “What for, sir? Why, sir — you know, sir — she went off, sir — on her — her — wedding-tower, sir.”

  “Her what !!!” cried Jack, wildly.

  “Her wedding-tower, sir,” repeated the servant, in a faint voice.

  “Her wedding-tour!” cried Jack. “Her wedding-tour! Do you mean what you say? Is this a joke? What do you mean?”

  At this, which was spoken most vehemently by Jack, who was now in a state of frightful excitement, the servant turned pale and started back in fear — so I interposed.

  “Don’t be at all alarmed,” I said, kindly. “We merely want to know, you know, what you mean by saying it was a wedding-tour. What wedding? We want to know, you know.”

  “Wedding, sir? Lor’, sir! Yes, sir. This morning, sir! She was married, you know, sir.”

  “Married!” cried Jack, in a strange, wild voice.

  “This morning!” I exclaimed.

  “Lor’, sir! Yes, sir,” continued the maid, who was still a little frightened at the presence of such excited visitors. “This morning, sir. Early, sir. Six o’clock, sir. And they took the seven o’clock train, sir — for Montreal, you know, sir — and they talked of New York, sir.”

  “They talked? They? Who? Married! Who married her? The widow! Mrs. Finnimore! Married! Nonsense! And gone! What do you mean? Who was it?”

  The maid started back in fresh fear at Jack’s terrible agitation. Terrible? I should rather think so. Imagine a criminal with the noose about his neck hearing a whisper going about that a pardon had arrived. Agitation? I should say that there was occasion for it. Still, I didn’t like to see that pretty servant-maid frightened out of her wits. So I interposed once more.

  “We merely want to know,” said I, mildly, “who the gentleman was to whom your mistress was married this morning, and with whom she went to Montreal?”

  “Who, sir? Why, sir — it was the chaplain, sir — of the Bobtails, sir — the Rev. Mr. Trenaman.”

  “The chaplain!!!” cried Jack, with a strange voice that was somewhere between a shout and a sob. He turned to me. There was ecstasy on his face. His eyes were all aglow, and yet I could see in them the moisture of tears. He caught my hand in both of his.

  “Oh, Macrorie!” he faltered, “see here, old boy — it’s too much — Louie — all right — at last — too much, you know.”

  And the long and the short of it is, he nearly wrung my hand off.

  Then he turned to the servant-maid, and fumbling in his pockets drew out a handful of sovereigns —

  “See here!” he said, “you glorious little thing! you princess of servant-maids! here’s some thing for a new bonnet, you know, or any thing else you fancy.”

  And he forced the sovereigns into her hand.

  Then he wrung my hand again.

  Then he rushed wildly out.

  He flung some more sovereigns at the astonished coachman.

  Then he sprang into the carriage, and I followed.

  “Where shall I drive to, sir?” said the coachman.

  “To Colonel Berton’s!” roared Jack.

  “Nonsense, Jack!” said I, “it’s too early.”

  “Early — the devil! No it isn’t. — Drive on.”

  And away went the carriage.

  I prevailed on Jack to drop me at the corner of one of the streets, and, getting out, I went to my den, meditating on the astonishing events of the day.

  The conclusions which I then came to about Mrs. Finnimore, now Mrs. Trenaman, were verified fully by discoveries made afterward.

  She had been quick-sighted enough to see that Jack did not care for her, and had given him up. The chaplain was far more to her taste. As Jack came again to her, she could not resist the desire to pay him up. This was the reason why she led him on to an offer of matrimony, and named the day and place. Miss Phillips had paid him up in one way; the widow chose another method, which was more in accordance with her own genius. All this time she had come to a full understanding with the chaplain, and the day which she had named to Jack was the very one on which her real marriage was to come off. I never could find out whether the chaplain knew about it or not. I rather think he did not. If he had known, he would have dropped a hint to Jack. He was such a confoundedly good-hearted sort of a fellow, that he would have interposed to prevent the success of the plan. As it was, it was carried out perfectly.

  After all, she wasn’t a bad little thing. She knew about Jack’s devotion to Louie, and thought that her little plot, while it gratified her own feelings, would not in any way interfere with Jack’s happiness. And it didn’t. For, ever since then, Jack has never ceased to declare that the widow as he still called her, was — a brick — a trump — a glorious lot — and every other name that has ever been invented to express whatever is noble, excellent, or admirable in human nature.

  The next morning Jack came bursting into my room. One look at him was enough. Jack was himself again. He poured forth a long, a vehement, and a very incoherent account of his proceedings. I can only give the general facts.

  He had driven at once to Colonel Berton’s. He had dashed into the house and asked for Louie. After a while Louie came down. He didn’t say a word to her, but caught her in his arms. She didn’t resist. Perhaps she had seen in his face, at one glance, that he was free. It was a long time before the absurd fellow could tell her what had happened. At length he managed to get it all out. He must have acted like a madman, but, as all lovers are more or less mad, his behavior may not have seemed very unnatural to Louie. The poor little girl had been moping ever since her last interview with Jack; every day had made it worse for her; and Jack assured me that, if he hadn’t turned up at that particular hour on that particular day, she would have taken to her bed, and never risen from it again. But as it was Jack’s inveterate habit to doom to death all the ladies who had cherished a tender passion in his behalf, the assertion may not be absolutely true. Louie might possibly have rallied from the blow, and regained the joy and buoyancy of her old life; yet, however that may be, it was certainly best for her that things should have turned out just as they did.

  But I must now leave Jack, and get on to —

  Chapter 37

  MY OWN AFFAIRS. — A DRIVE AND HOW IT CAME OFF. — VARYING MOODS. — THE EXCITED, THE GLOOMY, AND THE GENTLEMANLY. — STRAYING ABOUT MONTMORENCY. — REVISITING A MEMORABLE SCENE. — EFFECT OF SAID SCENE. — A MUTE APPEAL AND AN APPEAL IN WORDS. — RESULT OF THE APPEALS. — “WILL YOU TURN AWAY?” — GRAND RESULT. — CLIMAX. — FINALE. — A GENERAL UNDERSTANDING ALL ROUND, AND A UNIVERSAL EXPLANATION OF NUMEROUS PUZZLES.

  All this was very well. Of course. To a generous nature like mine, the happiness of a friend could not fail to extend itself. For I’m awfully sympathetic, you know. I don’t remember whether I’ve made that remark before or not, but in either case the fact remains. Yet, sympathetic or not, every fellow has his own affairs, you know, and, as a matter of course, these engage his chief attention. Now all my affairs circled around one centre, and that centre was — Marion!

  I had seen her on the previous evening. I had made an engagement with her and Nora to go out with me for a drive on the following day, and we had arranged all about it. We were to drive to Montmorency Falls, a place which is the chief attraction among the environs of Quebec. I had not been there since that memorable day when I rode there with the doctor to find my bird flown.

  Accordingly on the next day, at the appointed hour, I drew up in front of O’Halloran’s and went in. The ladies were there, but Nora was half-reclining on a couch, and seemed rather miserable. She complained of a severe at
tack of neuralgia, and lamented that she could not go. Upon this I expressed my deepest regrets, and hoped that Miss O’Halloran would come. But Marion demurred, and said she wouldn’t leave Nora. Whereupon Nora urged her to go, and finally, after evident reluctance, Marion allowed herself to be persuaded.

  It was with an inexpressible feeling of exultation that I drove off with her. At last we were alone together, and would be so for hours. The frigidity which had grown up within her during the last two months might possibly be relaxed now under the influence of this closer association. My heart beat fast. I talked rapidly about every thing. In my excitement I also drove rapidly at first, but finally I had sufficient sense to see that there was no need to shorten so precious an interview by hurrying it through, and so I slackened our speed.

  As for Marion, she seemed as calm as I was agitated. Her demeanor was a singular one. She was not exactly frigid or repellent. She was rather shy and reserved. It was rather the constraint of timidity than of dislike. Dislike? No. Not a bit of it. Whatever her feelings might be, she had no reason for dislike. Still she was cold — and her coldness began gradually to affect me in spite of my exultation, and to change my joy to a feeling of depression.

  After a few miles this depression had increased sufficiently to sober me down completely. I no longer rattled. I became grave. A feeling of despondency came over me. My spirits sank. There seemed no sympathy between us — no reciprocity of feeling. She had no cordiality of manner — no word, or look, or gesture to give encouragement.

  After a time my mood changed so under the influence of Marion’s depressing manner, that I fell into long fits of very ungallant silence — silence, too, which she never attempted to break. Amid these fits of silence I tried to conjecture the cause of her very great coolness, and finally came to the very decision which I had often reached before. “Yes,” I thought, “she has discovered how I love her, and she does not care for me. She has gratitude, but she cannot feel love. So she wishes to repel me. She didn’t want to come with me, and only came because Nora urged her. She did not like to refuse, for fear of seeming unkind to me. At the same time, now that she is with me, she is trying to act in such a way as will effectually quell any unpleasant demonstrations of mine.” Thoughts like these reduced me to such a state of gloom that I found myself indulging in fits of silence that grew longer and longer.